


nights of greater debauchery.

by orphan_account



Category: A Series of Unfortunate Events (TV)
Genre: Other, Sorry Not Sorry, Underage - Freeform, carmelita is even hotter, fingering is hot, pedophilia relationship implied
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-16
Updated: 2018-11-16
Packaged: 2019-08-24 09:12:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16637084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: The new era of cake-sniffers have come to Prufrock Preparatory School and Carmelita Spats latches onto them almost immediately. The Girl with her wide eyes and gorgeous hair and supple lips, the Boy with the fire in his eyes and smooth features. She doesn't tell them this, of course - only sends them on a tour that ends with them late for their meeting with her dearest Nero. That night, she's plagued with thoughts of them, torturing and tormenting them at first and eventually ... leads into something more.





	nights of greater debauchery.

**Author's Note:**

> So, I finally started watching Netflix's A Series of Unfortunate Events and got to season 2, and as soon as Carmelita came on screen my heart burst at her adorableness! 
> 
> So, naturally, I had to ruin her just like I ruined Eleven. This is a one-shot / proof of concept of sorts, but if there's a greater request for them, I might just supply. 
> 
> Safe to say, Carmelita's here to stay :*

       If there was one thing Carmelita Spats hated more than those ugly, disgusting, vile things the _other_ students at the Academy had to wear – it was those uniforms snugged tightly on _cake sniffers_. Those so far beneath her station, she'd have to have a shrink ray just to tell them how far beneath her they were! Of course, they'd always come back with a witty remark, some snide comment, a snarky glance – they never took her seriously. But the new blood – the _Baudelaires_ – oh, _they_ offered all of those **and** a healthy dose of taking her seriously. She'll never forget the look in that boy's eyes as she led them all around the Academy, wasting their precious time. She'll never forget the look in that girl's eyes as she revealed to them that she'd made them late. It was all so deliciously devilishly delightfully devious!

       And that's what made this particularly peculiar night alone in her room in the dorm which was all-but exclusive to her (because she was Nero's favorite, after all) all the more frustrating. For you see, she could not get either of those children out of her mind, or the baby for that matter. Usually, she forgets everyone the second she looks away, but the boy's eyes and the girl's mouth stuck around, a nagging thing. So much so that she sat on her lush bed, furiously scratching at her cheeks in an attempt to scare them out of her mind. After an hour of this with her cheeks run red, she turned to sticking her face in a pillow and screaming. When that didn't work, she threw her whole body on the bed and kicked _and_ screamed. And that didn't work either.

       Then, a very, very curious thing happened. She began to enjoy their presence in her mind – she could think up all sorts of vile things to do to them and imagine what their reactions would be. It made the next hour all that more deliciously devilish. At two in the morning, she found herself cold, lack of blankets notwithstanding. She still remained in the beautiful pink dress she _always_ wore around the halls. Life, she thought, for a prestigiously gifted eleven year old wasn't so bad after all. She always got her way, had her choice of the better snacks and meals in the cafeteria, and best of all – two new _cake sniffers_ to torment. The thought made her warm and fuzzy inside. Soon, that warmth and fuzziness spread throughout her entire body. Oh yes, she'd felt this feeling before. She's very, very familiar with it. Having an all-access pass to every room in the Academy, she read up on every subject they had available, female anatomy included. And, of course, it helped that she ended up exploring for herself. In the dark of her room, alone, she smiled a smile so mischievous it could only be described as evil; there was, after all, a reason she was Nero's favorite. Her right hand sneaks underneath her dress, fingers running up her thighs. The sensation was enough to make her gasp, even moreso when she presses her index and middle finger against her inner thigh – and then her growing, soaking wetness. She could feel herself through her panties and still, she pressed on.

       Carmelita began to rub herself, relishing in that warmth, that wetness, all while thoughts of the newest additions to the school plagued her. Furiously, her pace picked up, and her distaste at their gaunt faces floating around in her mind grew and grew. She started to moan, and squeal, pressing her legs together. Still, those thoughts would not go away, so she did one thing she had not yet tried: she slapped herself with her free hand. The sensation was almost too much for her, the pain stinging and permanent. She did it again, and with a bang, Carmelita Spats came thinking of the Baudelaires. She wasn't done yet. She kicked off her pretty little shoes, removed her pretty little panties, and slid a finger in her with some resistance. _That_ felt incredible, so of course she slapped herself again, harder this time. She grew to find that she enjoyed the pain and, for the first time, imagined the Baudelaires causing it to her. As she fingered herself at a faster and faster pace, she imagined both of them pinning her down, dangling a sickly, disgusting thread of spit over her face. That would be the Boy's job, most likely. The Girl would pull at her hair and slap her as she slapped herself, pinching her cheeks together and telling her to open her mouth. She wouldn't dare, she'd say, and as she'd say that, the Boy would let loose the spit, landing squarely on her tongue. Then they'd both hold her nose and cover her mouth so she would be forced to swallow it. That thought and her slapping only intensified her desire, and the warmth. She'd done that to plenty of students over her time here, it's only fitting it should be done to her.

       “Oh, _degrade me_ , you filthy cake-sniffers. I bet you just _love_ treating me like I'm lower than you.” she breathes out, breathlessly, through heavy, bated gasps. Sweat forms at her brow, slicking into her hair as she throws her head back, coming once again. “You'd _love_ filling Carmelita up with your vile fluids, wouldn't you?”

       She is acutely aware, of course, her words go unanswered. But it's something she doesn't care about, sliding yet another finger, as tight as can be. She remembers hearing somewhere that that's what everybody liked, though she imagines the Baudelaires despised it. She imagines the Girl bundling her short, curly hair up in her fist and slapping her _hard_ with her free hand, she imagines the Boy telling her how much they both hate tight little girls as he spreads her legs. She imagines the both of them laughing and using her body as their own little punishment playground.

       She balls her slapping hand up into a fist and slams it into her cheek as hard as she can muster, bringing about a full-body orgasm that leaks and messes onto her sheets. She's never done, though, not with an imagination as vivid as hers. She punches herself again, sliding a third finger in her, wincing and tearing up at the immeasurable pain she feels from both her own strikes and the fullness she feels. Yet, all she wants are the Baudelaires' fingers in her instead of her own, all she wants are their fists against her body, leaving violet, pock-marked bruises. The thought builds up more warmth in her small frame, and she picks up the pace, as fast as she can.

       “Oh, _god_ , Baudelaires, you just **love** using dear old Carmelita Spats as your spitbucket, your punching bag, your _fucking_ toy.” when she comes a final time, she squirts, spraying the wall across from her, marking it with her liquid. Exhausted, she slides off her bed, fingers still locked in her, panting heavily. “Please, dear Baudelaires, make Carmelita yours in any way you must.”

       She dreams of greater debauchery in the morning, and wakes to the scent of come plugging her nose.

       “Hello, Carmelita.” the Boy says.

 


End file.
